


and truth be told i never was yours

by wolfinglet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, But he knows what he likes and what he doesn't, Danny has questionable taste in boys, Danny is bad at defining things, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, Seduction, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinglet/pseuds/wolfinglet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stilinski kind of strikes Danny as the weirdly closeted type. Not necessarily <i>closeted</i> closeted, but closeted in the way where he doesn’t realize he’s got some homo leanings mixed in with the hetero ones? Because he does. And those homo leanings have been written all over his face since they were freshmen. Danny doesn’t really know how to handle weirdly closeted homo leanings.</p><p>Also, the nogitsune tries to seduce Danny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and truth be told i never was yours

Stilinski kind of strikes Danny as the weirdly closeted type. Not necessarily _closeted_ closeted, but closeted in the way where he doesn’t realize he’s got some homo leanings mixed in with the hetero ones? Because he does. And those homo leanings have been written all over his face since they were freshmen. Danny doesn’t really know how to handle weirdly closeted homo leanings.

The point is, Stilinski is _at least_ bi, and some of that bi is aimed at Danny himself, but Danny doesn’t want to get mixed up in that bullshit. Nope. He dates his fair share of assholes, like the guy when he was fifteen who picked him up at The Jungle and took him home and fucked him over his dresser, calling his ass a pussy the whole time and keeping his hands the hell away from a reach-around. 

Then there’s Joey, who has bigger gauges every time Danny sees him. And that’s cool, it is, Danny’s very pro-your body is your body, but the thing is, Joey got them because Danny doesn’t like gauges. To top that off, he cheated on Danny. Three times. 

But Danny keeps going back to him. Because—there’s a limited supply of queer kids in this town, and it’s friendly and all, the guys on the lacrosse team don’t care that he’s in the locker room with them. None of that NFL “oh he’s looking at my dick” homophobia or anything. It’s just that there’s a limited supply of queer guys, and Danny has ruled most of them out as not his type (that is: too nice, ugh) or as taken or as cheaters (from experience, seeing them, not because he’s a judgmental asshole who looks at people and says “yup, a cheater” like Jackson used to do). 

Right. Jackson. 

There was Jackson, for a while. They talk less. Jackson wants to distance himself from Beacon Hills. That’s fine. The problem is that Jackson is _exactly_ Danny’s type. He was right when he said—no, wait, he wasn’t. Most people don’t like irrepressible, self-centered assholes the way Danny does, so Jackson isn’t everyone’s type. He’s Danny’s, though. 

So is Stilinski. 

Only . . . nicer than the usual crop. Sorta? Nicer to the people he likes, at least. For some reason, Danny’s in that group. Other people like Danny, sure. He’s friendly, he’s a good goalie, if he says so himself, and he’s the guy people call when they have a flat. 

Except Danny doesn’t want to touch Stiles and his unrealized bisexuality with a ten-foot pole. He just wants to touch someone with Stiles’s personality and looks, but less—less— 

Less complicated? Is that it? Oh, god, is that it? 

No, Danny thinks, flashing his fake I.D. The Jungle lets eighteen-year-olds in, and Danny’s only three months from being legal, but he’s been coming here since he was fifteen, so it’s not like he’s going to stop now. 

It’s not about Stiles being complicated, or about Stiles being caught up in what _ever_ all of Danny’s peers are caught up in—by the way, he’s starting to think it might be an elaborate gang, or a cult. It’s about Stiles being . . . 

Something. 

Danny’s going to get drunk. 

Danny’s going to get drunk because a month ago, he would’ve been spending his Friday night with Ethan, but Ethan is also caught up in the quote-unquote cult, and he also vanished for two weeks, and he also gives Danny Vibes, occasionally. Vibes like the guy Danny slept with sophomore year who ended up being a serial killer (don’t remind him). 

He makes his way to the bar, fending off the first of the exotic guys as he goes. He doesn’t mean they’re exotic, because exotic is a word he tends to not use at all, ever. He means one of the guys who sidles up to him and puts a hand on him and says they like Mexican meat, or can he speak a little Spanish, and does he know what white cock is like? “I’m not Mexican,” he says, leveling one of his rare glares at the guy. It apparently works, and the way to booze is clear. 

Danny drinks “girly” drinks because they taste good and because a guy with girly drinks tends to draw assholes to him. The personality kind and the other kind. 

Danny is pretty sure he has a problem. But he isn’t looking to get hitched, or to go steady. He just wants to spend his Friday somewhere that isn’t home, with a cock in his mouth. That’s not a lot to ask. Danny has a list of things the guys he goes home with aren’t allowed to do, so he works his way through people until he finds someone who doesn’t strike themselves off. 

“Exotic” is on there. Mexican. Fag. Pussy. Guys in a gay club think they have the right to use those kinds of words, but Danny doesn’t like that specific brand of jackasses. 

See, this is his problem. Danny has a problem defining things. 

So he stops trying to define, takes off his shirt, and wades out onto the dance floor. This is easy for him, showing himself off until someone grabs him. He fends off three more “exotic” dudes, twisting his hips too hard for them to hold on to, and dances by himself for a while. The first guy who brought him here told him the people who dance by themselves are desperate, but Danny loses himself in it, tipping his head back until the lights are in his eyes and the music thrums around him. 

Hands cup his hips. Danny looks, but no one’s in front of him, and when he moves to turn, lips press to his ear and a voice, half-familiar, says, “Are you with anyone?” 

Danny blinks at the people in front of him. The hands move, trailing up, tracing sweat tracks on Danny’s sides and move around to his ribs. They’re gentle, not possessive, and they don’t grab him the way some dudes do, like he’s meat being examined for quality. 

Also, no one has ever had the courtesy to ask him if he’s with someone. “No,” he says, tilting his head enough for the guy to hear him, but not enough to see. That seems to be a good thing, because he gets a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. 

“Good,” the guy says, and moves in closer, wrapping an arm firmly around Danny’s waist and dragging him in until they’re pressed together. The guy’s wearing a shirt, something silky, and it rubs off on Danny’s skin, sticking to him. He has nice forearms, big hands, long fingers. Fingers Danny’s sure would feel _great_ inside him. 

“You’re not supposed to be wearing a shirt.” Danny grinds his hips back as incentive. 

“Maybe I like the mystery of it,” the guy says, his lips at Danny’s ear again. They’re slick, smooth, and his teeth graze the shell of Danny’s ear. Danny can’t imagine what he looks like without feeling fetishistic, so he imagines nothing, just darkness at his back. 

Maybe Danny is a lot into this. Anonymous sex. Hey, that he can define. 

For all mystery boy (man?) likes wearing his shirt, he’s into Danny’s being off, if the way he latches on to the backs of Danny’s shoulders is any indication. His hands rove while he leaves hickeys with his slow sucking mouth, dragging sweat-sleek paths from Danny’s biceps and down, over his wrists. Danny has never thought of his wrists as erotic spots, but there they are, with the guy’s long fingers scaling up the insides, nails dragging. 

_You look white here_ , a guy said once. This guy doesn’t say that. He bends, as much as Danny can tell, and puts his forehead on the back of Danny’s neck, and inhales. “You smell good,” he says. 

“Armani,” Danny manages. Mystery boy’s hands move up his wrists, gripping, until his thumbs are sweeping slow circles on the insides of Danny’s elbows. His touch is confident, sure, but it’s light, too. 

Danny should treat himself with someone who is not an asshole. That sounds good. “Can I turn around,” he says, too gravelly to be a real question. 

“No,” mystery boy says. He bites the back of Danny’s neck, then laves a mark there with tongue and teeth. His voice is deep, and when he pushes his hips forward this time, bending Danny’s body with the sinuous rock of his. “You like this.” He lets Danny’s arms go and slides his hands over his stomach, trailing down to the waistband of Danny’s jeans. His teeth scrape a line from Danny’s ear to the slope of his shoulder, which has a direct line to Danny’s cock, because his jeans are suddenly way too tight and he _wants_ to turn around, kiss the hell out of this guy, even if he’s kinking on the anon. “Don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Danny admits. He folds his hand over the guy’s, holding it in place, and to his surprise, it stays, his fingertips pressing in random patterns. 

“What would you do,” the guy says, kissing the shell of Danny’s ear, “if I fucked you like this? Do you want me to take you to the back?” His voice dips lower and Danny’s stomach goes with it. He’s clinging to the guy’s hand. This is one of the first time he feels _seduced_ , instead of like he’s doing the seducing, or like he’s letting some guy get what he wants from Danny because Danny’s hard up for some connection. 

“I’d let you.” 

“You’d _let_ me.” 

“I want you to,” Danny says. He almost turns his head, but those fingers catch his jaw and turn him back. 

“Press you to the wall,” mystery boy says. “Hold your shoulders to it. Fuck you deep and hard. You have nice shoulders, did you know that? Broad. Strong. I could hold you down.” Danny’s about to say hi, hey, he likes to negotiate about who’s on top, but mystery boy adds, “You can try your luck holding me down, if you want, but trust me, I’m slippery.” His teeth sink into the space between Danny’s shoulder blades and he squeezes Danny’s hips in both hands, firm, _makes_ Danny move back into him, grinding them together like he’s already fucking Danny, and it’s _just_ how Danny likes it. 

“We should leave,” mystery boy says. His tongue is hot and wet when he licks Danny’s cheek. “Take me home with you, Danny.” 

Wait. 

This guy knows his name? 

Danny can’t help it. 

He turns around. 

“St—” Danny gapes at him. At _Stiles_ fucking _Stilinski_ , standing there with a black silk shirt and red skinny jeans and his hair flat and his eyes dark. “ _Stiles_?” 

Stiles cocks his head. “Yes?” 

Danny stares. What else is he supposed to do? “Are you high?” he asks, suspicious. 

“No,” Stiles says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It’s not a very Stiles smile. 

“Yeah,” Danny says, “I’m not convinced.” He’s drunk or high, man. He’s out there. Danny has never once seen Stiles Stilinski be _smooth_ , but he just seduced the fuck out of Danny, and he’s . . . still doing a good job of it, stalking toward him, touching his hips again, thumbs slotting into the vees of Danny’s hipbones where they curve down. “Stiles—” 

“You don’t want to?” Stiles asks, cocking his head the other way. The smile slips. His pupils are wide. He doesn’t smell like alcohol, but that doesn’t mean he’s not rocking out on a tab of E. 

“Dude,” Danny says. “I’m not comfortable with this.” 

Stiles frowns at him, pulling his hands back, fingers spread. The way he moves is too smooth. It’s not right. Danny thinks, _this isn’t Stiles_ , but that’s ridiculous. Unless his friends’ cult has learned how to grow clones, this is Stiles in front of him. 

“No,” Danny says. 

Stiles’s lips peel back from his teeth, and he snarls. 

This is _not_ Stiles. 

“Danny,” someone says from behind him. Danny moves back to them on instinct. No matter who it is, they’re better than not-Stiles. 

It’s Scott. Scott and Lydia, who has a knife in her hand and a syringe in the other. 

“Uh,” Danny says. 

Lydia gives him a lopsided, sympathetic smile. “Danny,” she says, “I love you, but you really need better taste in guys.” 

No arguments there, but, “When this is over,” Danny says, backing away and watching as Scott advances on Stiles, whose eyes are starting to _glow white_ , “you are explaining _everything_.” 

“We’re not a cult,” Lydia says. 

Stiles grins too wide for his face and throws a bolt of orange energy in Scott’s face with a curl of his strong, thin fingers. 

Damn it. 

“Sure,” Danny says. His luck sucks, seriously. “Sure.”


End file.
